


Outside Lookin' In (I'm Feeling Lost and Cold as Sin)

by CitrusVanille



Category: McFly
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-21
Updated: 2008-11-21
Packaged: 2018-12-02 05:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: They're somewhere between Glasgow and London the first time Tom hears it.





	Outside Lookin' In (I'm Feeling Lost and Cold as Sin)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to end up as threesome fic, it really was. But then my heart turned to stone and bled buttermilk.

They’re somewhere between Glasgow and London the first time Tom hears it. It’s some time between really fucking late and really fucking early, and the bus is dark, the hum of the engines just soothing background noise after weeks of touring. Tom’s floating on the edge of sleep, has been since he tumbled into his bunk after the show, and he’d really like to stop floating and just sink already, but there’s still just enough adrenaline buzzing under his skin to keep him from going under entirely.

There’s a soft gasp from the bunk beneath Tom’s, and he’s not sure why it strikes him as an odd sound – it’s entirely possible Dougie’s just making noises in his sleep again, like a puppy – but then there’s the rustle of cloth followed by a muffled moan. Tom swallows a frustrated groan. He knows those sounds. He clings to the last vestiges of sleep and wonders if the sound of him hiding his head under his pillow would be loud enough to carry. The last thing he needs right now is to listen to Dougie jerking off right under him. His half-asleep mind is already trying to conjure images and he just. No. Not now. He’s been dealing so well with his stupid infatuation. It’s just _lust_ , Dougie is his _friend_ , and even _thinking_ about him like this makes him feel like the worst kind of arsehole. He really wishes he were asleep.

He squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he can see white lights exploding behind his lids, and tries to silently play something – anything – that will help him shut out the noises Dougie’s making while simultaneously being soothing enough to put him to sleep. Only the first song that pops into his head is _You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away_ , and that’s just. Not helpful.

More fabric shifting, soft sounds of skin on skin. Tom’s trying really hard not to listen, to convince himself he’s really just about to doze off. Then there’s a double-hitch of breath and. Tom’s suddenly fully awake. There’s no way only one person can make that kind of noise. People just don’t breathe like that.

_Oh god oh god oh god._

Tom’s pretty sure there’s no one on the bus except the band and the driver tonight. More than pretty sure. Positive. He would have noticed an extra body hanging around. And the driver is, fairly obviously, driving. At least, he really hopes the driver is driving, and the bus isn’t about to careen wildly off into a field in the middle of nowhere. That would be bad. Though, possibly, it would make the noises from Dougie’s bunk stop, and that. Would not be bad. Because Tom does not want to listen. At all. And he doesn’t want to know if it’s Danny or Harry with Dougie, because he doesn’t care. He’s not invested. He’s getting over it. He is.

There’s a soft hiss of breath, a cut off gasp, a low _mm_.

Tom is not thinking that it can’t be Danny, because Danny is louder – though with the number of nights they’ve spent on buses, in hotel rooms, living together, there is no way Tom could _not_ know how each and every one of them sounds, blushes to think they know what he sounds like – he’s just. Not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about the way Dougie’s breathing picks up speed sooner than it would if he were alone. He’s not thinking about the stuttered _ah-ah_ that Harry can’t suppress. He’s not thinking he wishes that was him.

A sound that might be nails scraping over skin, the wet smack of mouths colliding and pulling apart, the click of teeth, the smooth drag of lips and tongue down throats, chests.

The noises are so faint Tom’s not sure if he’s really hearing them or just imagining it, knows he’s straining to pick up anything – everything – and hates it. Doesn’t know how to stop. He’s hot, can feel the sweat on his forehead, nose, gathering at the base of his throat, trickling along his spine. It makes him want to twitch, press his back to the mattress, turn his face to the sheets, slide his hand down his stomach and just. But he’s afraid to move, afraid he’ll give himself away.

“God, please.” It’s barely more than an exhalation, but Tom can’t not hear it, not with the near-silence all around him, and the way he’s waiting for it, waiting to hear the slightest change of breath. Harry sounds almost desperate, and Tom doesn’t want to know – can’t not know, hates that he knows – and he doesn’t want to –

And Tom knows what those noises mean, knows why Harry’s breathing has gone completely erratic. He knows why Harry’s breath cuts out completely for several long seconds when Dougie hums – the sound nearly inaudible but the vibration clear, the silent echoes of it buzzing along Tom’s bones, through his veins, pounding in time with his pulse. He’s so hard it hurts to stay still, tries to keep from twisting his hips against his mattress, tries to keep his hands by his sides, fingers clenching and unclenching helplessly on air.

Tom can hear skin rubbing on skin rubbing on cotton. He can picture Dougie braced between Harry’s thighs, head down, hair in his face, jerking himself off against the sheets with one hand as his mouth works over Harry’s cock, lips and tongue teasing not enough, too much, just right. Tom wants to push Dougie’s hair back behind his ear, wants to see the way his lashes brush his cheek when he closes his eyes, see his throat move as he swallows.

Harry’s breathing is ragged, quiet open-mouthed inhalations that dry lips and teeth and tongues. Dougie’s breathing is harder to hear, short and sharp and steadily losing control as he breathes through his nose. And then. And then.

For a split second – between the catch of Harry’s breath, his near-silent gasp as he comes, and the muffled whimper that means Dougie’s followed him over – Tom hates Harry more than he’s ever hated anyone. Then he’s got one hand wrapped around his own cock, can’t stop himself anymore, can’t want to, can’t even think enough to know he should. Fingers tight, and he can feel the damp on the inside of his boxers against the back of his hand, the wet of pre-come on his palm as he twists his hand over the head, and that’s all it takes before he’s coming, biting into his other arm to keep from making any noise, praying Dougie and Harry are still too far gone to pay attention to any sounds he can’t stifle.

There’s the soft sound of murmurs drifting up to Tom’s ears when he comes down. He can’t understand the words – the sound of his own heartbeat still throbbing in his ears – but the tone is gentle, content. Happy.

Tom swallows hard. He feels dirty, like he’s cheated, or like he’s violated the intimacy between his friends. Every ounce of loathing he’d felt for Harry dissolves into self-disgust, but he still can’t help wanting –

He wishes he could be someone else, someone who didn’t have perfectly good reasons to hate himself. He wishes he could stop this, turn off his head, turn off his heart, stop feeling this way. He wishes he didn’t know why he wants to cry.


End file.
